Posthumous
by Juliabohemian
Summary: During his brief tenure as headmaster, Snape kept a diary.
1. Chapter 1

_Just screwing around with a little Harry Potter. Sure, why not? Better late than never._

NOTE: I probably won't bother to continue this if it appears no one is reading it. So if you read it, take a second to let me know.

* * *

**5 September, 1997**

This morning Albus had the audacity to tell me that I needed something to do.

Because apparently running the school like a prison, while simultaneously attempting to keep the Carrow twins from casting unforgivables on my students and enduring Minerva's constant glares of distrust and hatred, do not constitute a sufficient distraction.

So for the record, this journal was his suggestion, his idea. I have no desire to record my thoughts for prying eyes to find. Especially not in this fashion. I take little comfort in the knowledge that whatever is written with this quill, once transcribed, cannot be erased.

Naturally I shared my reservations with Albus. It is my belief that when this is all over, no one will care what I had to say about it. They already made up their minds about me long ago and no new evidence stands a chance of altering that. Ever the hopeless optimist, he insists that I am mistaken, and that I should take the opportunity to make myself understood, even if it is posthumously.

I'm not sure whether to find it comforting or disconcerting that even he has accepted that I am unlikely to survive this ordeal. I have already come to terms with the fact that my death is inevitable. But he is also assuming that a person exists who will figure out how to reveal the contents of this enchanted parchment, which I seriously doubt. If you are reading this, whomever you may be, you have earned a sliver of my respect. My money is on Miss Granger.

No one has ever made any attempt to understand me -except perhaps for Albus. Not that I would say he has succeeded. But I certainly do not expect that to change, regardless of what insight I might store here. Seeing as he's dead now and it is far less satisfying to argue with a portrait, I am willing to entertain the possibility that there is some merit to notion and have chosen to acquiesce his request for the time being.

So I will write, for now, until such time I should tire of it. Because somehow, even after expiring, Albus gets his way. Albus always gets his way. But I make no promises in regards to length, quality or completion.

* * *

**28 September, 1997**

Apparently I don't see Albus as often as I should, or so I am reminded whenever I am foolish enough to give him the opportunity.

I confess -I sequester myself in my quarters as often as possible, as opposed to my office, where his portrait is conveniently located. Mostly because I dislike the reminders that dwell within. I dislike gazing into the eyes of a man whose life I extinguished, whether it was my idea or not. Especially when those eyes are warm and filled with a compassion and a forgiveness that I do not desire, nor deserve. Call me melodramatic. I find it unpleasant. I am certain it is not a coincidence that after each of our discussions I find myself indulging in a glass of Scotch. Or two or three.

It will never really feel like_ my _office. It's his office. It will always be his office. The position of headmaster does not truly belong to me. I didn't earn it, any more than a snatcher earns the pocketbook or handbag of some gormless nob in the park. Nor did I earn the positions I held prior. But that is another story for another time. Suffice to say that this position was thrust upon me, against my will, much like many things before it. And as has always been the case, regardless of what anyone else might think, I am doing the best I can with the cards I have been dealt.

Also, since this purpose of this journal is to convey my _true feelings_, perhaps I should say that one of the major reasons I would rather not speak to Albus is because I am really bloody angry with him. One would probably assume it would be the other way around. That would make more sense, would it not? After all, I killed him. But to be honest, most days it feels almost as though it was he who killed me.

So I avoid him whenever possible, because I would rather not be reminded of things that are no longer. Perhaps I am selfish. There are many reasons why I did not wish to kill Albus -probably too many to count. But denying the school a headmaster was not among them. The school could always find another headmaster. The children never needed him as much as I needed him. As much as I need him now, here with me instead of hanging on the wall like some sick parody of his former existence. Yes, I'm selfish bastard.

But Albus was selfish bastard too. So I suppose we are even. It is enough that I do his bidding. I'll speak with him when I wish to, and no more.


	2. Chapter 2

_Maudlin maybe._

* * *

**31 October, 1997**

As is usually the case on this particular date, my thoughts dwell heavily on the subject of death.

But tonight it is for a different reason.

A few months ago, I watched a woman die.

That, in and of itself, is not particularly shocking. It was not the first death I have ever witnessed. I have since seen others perish and I am confident I will see even more, before this war is over. Should that day ever come.

Despite what people might think, it has never gotten any easier, at least not for me. There is something sobering about watching someone's existence being snuffed out before your very eyes. When I was a child and I saw my mother perform magic for the very first time, the world became truly alive for me. Magic _was_ life. And I have since learned that death is more than just the opposite of life. It is the complete and utter absence of magic. Perhaps that is the only proof I require -and I do require it- that I am not truly one of them. That I could never really be. Even if I alone possess that knowledge. Because I know what a tragedy it is when that magic is gone.

I was not to _develop any attachments_ to any of the other staff members at Hogwarts. It was too much of a liability. I was there for a reason and it was not to make friends. Not that I was ever particularly gifted in that department. But I distinctly remember Albus using those words. It was the theme of one particular segment of the lengthy speech I received, when I came under his employ. I assume, based on his phrasing, that it was merely implied that no staff member would be developing any attachment to me. In his defense, I think perhaps he was under the impression that this would not constitute much of a sacrifice for me, as I had a reputation (even then) for preferring the company of myself to that of anyone else. Of course there are reasons for that, of which even Albus is unaware. Perhaps I will see fit to record them at a later time, if I live long enough to do so. At the moment I do not feel inclined.

But thus my interaction with my colleagues was to be limited to that which my duties as a professor and head of house required. Which was surprisingly minimal. Aside from Albus, I did not spend a great deal of one on one time with any other member of the staff. It became a habit to merely decline any invitations I might receive, though admittedly they were few and far between. Eventually people developed the good sense to stop asking altogether. Except for Rubius -poor chap. He's probably given up now though, I'm thinking, me being a traitor and a murderer and a servant of the Dark Lord.

So it became known that I apparently wished to _fraternize_ with no one. As the gossip tends to churn with great frequency in the presence of adolescents, many theories developed regarding the deeper reasons for my anti-social behavior. It has been said that I am a vampire, a pedophile, a closeted homosexual, and a serial killer. The list of rumors I have heard include countless variations of each. Some theories are slightly less imaginative, revolving around my apparent hatred for Muggles and non-pureblood wizards and favoritism for Slytherins. I have never sought to rectify this as -ironically- such misconceptions of my character are to my benefit.

In the autumn of 1993 a woman named Charity Burbage replaced Mr. Douglas as the professor of Muggle Studies. I am not entirely certain what happened to him. Albus refused to say. He left rather unexpectedly and I heard rumors of an illegitimate child. Miss Burbage could not have been any older than I, although I never formally inquired. But I honestly do not recall her having been a student at Hogwarts. I imagine, had she been, she'd have been a Hufflepuff. Perhaps a Ravenclaw.

She was a handsome woman. Not strikingly beautiful. But certainly not displeasing to the eye. Not that I gave it much consideration. By the time she accepted her position at Hogwarts I had long since abandoned the pointless habit of objectifying the opposite sex. She was also practical, sentimental and slightly naive. But above all else, rather accepting of others, regardless of their nature.

It was probably for that reason that, despite my repellant personality, I found myself in her company on numerous occasions. It did not occur to me until one spring night, the year following, that it had been intentional on her part. She extended to me an invitation to meet her on the astronomy tower, for what I was led to believe were strictly professional reasons. After a rather brief discussion about the importance of maintaining certain aspects of our curriculum, the conversation became more casual. Hours passed and she had not tired of my company, nor I hers. It was the longest I could recall spending in the presence of another adult, merely socializing. It was -dare I say- rather pleasant.

But our exchange ended rather abruptly when she reached out and placed her hand on mine. Startled by the unexpected physical contact, I immediately pulled away. She politely excused herself, attempting to mask her embarrassment. Neither of us ever addressed the incident and I made certain never to give her the opportunity. After that night, I was never alone in a room with her again. I was merely congenial towards her, if not slightly more so than my other colleagues.

While I did not possess more than a mild attraction to this woman, I cannot help wondering what might have come of it, had I the freedom to return her affections. Perhaps it is part of my penance to have been denied such a privilege.

Tonight I watched as Miss Burbage was tortured by Death Eaters, and awarded mercy only when they ceased to be entertained by her suffering. She was then allowed to die -devoured by a vile creature, only slightly less vile than its master. And I sat and did nothing.

Could I have saved her, I wonder. In her last breath she cried out to me for help. She reminded me that we had been _friends._ Although I consider that to be a rather generous description of our relationship, there have been precious few willing to call me their _friend_, let alone admit it in the presence of others. But she did. And yet, I did nothing.

And what if I had? What if I had freed her from the body binding curse, snatched her and fled? How far would we have made it? How long would it have taken them to find us? How much would they have made us suffer before ending us both? And what of Potter? How would he then vanquish the Dark Lord if I do not survive to fulfill my purpose?

Was Miss Burbage a necessary loss? Was her life less valuable than mine or Potter's, or that of every other soul who has fallen prey to one wizard's insane lust for power?

I know I should not torment myself wondering what might have been, had I not heard the prophecy, had I not notified the Dark Lord, whether I am to blame for all of this or if he would have found another way. I have gone days, unable to sleep, fearful of the visions of despair that will claim me if I do. In death, will I escape this sorrow? Is death more than just the absence of magic? Will there be peace? In death, will I finally be free of the constant reminder of the misery I have caused?

Albus was right to deny me.


	3. Chapter 3

_Emo Snape is emo_

* * *

**7 November, 1997**

I should note -I think- that I have been drinking rather heavily. But as it seems I would be reluctant to write in this blasted journal otherwise, I suppose it is of no consequence.

Is has occurred to me that -perhaps now more than ever- I lead a rather ironic existence.

_Irony_ is Minerva thinking that I am the enemy.

_Irony_ is all the members of the order claiming they suspected all along that I would betray them. Even though I'm certain that at least a handful of them are speaking the truth.

_Irony_ is that one day soon, Abeforth will help Potter and his little friends break into the castle, so they can _rescue_ the students from me and drive me out of the only place I've ever really thought of as home. Maybe if I am fortunate, they will kill me in the process. I rather hope they do. I do not doubt that my dueling abilities are far superior to that of mere children, even if one of them is the _boy who lived_. But I do not intend to defend myself, should the opportunity to expire arise.

_Irony_ is Albus telling me that it is unhealthy for me to drink so much, that I do not eat enough, and that I should sleep more. Food no longer holds any appeal for me, no longer bears any flavor. And the notion of rest is one I abandoned long ago.

It is far too late to feign concern about the quality of my life, old man. If you really cared about me -or anyone else for that matter- you would still be here. But that is my fault too, is it not? Yes, somehow everything is.

You bastard. I am so lost without you.

_No consequence_ -what a ridiculous notion. Everything in life is _of consequence_.

In hindsight, perhaps it is not wise to write while inebriated.

Too late now.

Bollocks to irony.

* * *

**26 December, 1997**

I remember with great clarity the day I chose to receive the dark mark. Had I known then it was the last real choice I would ever really have in my life, I might have given it more serious consideration. I was a foolish child, seeking a remedy for my own obscurity, only to discover that no such remedy exists. I have since learned that desperation is the very worst motivation for anything and it never ends well for anyone. Sometimes it never ends at all.

Today I have no choices. Today I have an identity that is constructed entirely by the company I happen to be in at the moment. I cannot remember who I am anymore, who I once was. I am not entirely sure.

I know only that my heart has become colder than the snow that is falling outside, as I write this. Its rhythm slows with each passing day. And it eagerly waits for permission to cease beating.

There are days when I forget why I should despise him. I must often force myself to remember. I could never stand to gaze upon him for more than mere moments at a time. Because I knew that if I should, I would remember that he is not his father. And then I would realize that the satisfaction I had hoped to derive from treating him with derision would never come and that it would not change anything even if it did. It would not change who I have become or the decisions I have made or the resulting danger we are all in now.

Watching him wade into that freezing water to retrieve the Sword of Gryffindor, I caught a glimpse of young man who is more than the sum of his parentage. In the darkest of moments, it is that image of hope to which I cling. He is the _Golden Boy_ after all. He is destined to defeat the Dark Lord, destined to save us all. All as in everyone. Does that include me, I wonder. Would he save me, if it were in his power?

No, I believe it is a bit too late for me to be saved. I am not his responsibility. I sealed my own fate long ago. And I do not think I could bring myself to allow it.

No matter- he despises me anyway. That much I know is true. Although it is difficult to imagine how he could not. I all but made certain of it, for reasons I do not fully understand, nor care to explore.

Perhaps I really am that cruel. Or perhaps I just wanted someone else to know what it felt like to be the undeserving object of another person's hatred. In the end, what did it really accomplish? I suppose I will never know.


End file.
